Showdown at Sunsplash Estates
by starofoberon
Summary: The story that answers the burning question, "Where does a nudist carry his gun?" A team of brutal killers. A courageous witness. Tension! Fear! Derek Morgan, naked! Morgan POV. A quickie one-a-day five-shot. Finally complete! Rated for language
1. Looking for Bubba the Unsubba

A/N Yeah, I know, no "Watchers" last week due to Holiday Challenge stuff, and probably not this week because this plot weasel seized me by the throat. Soon, though. I promise. And as always, these toons are not mine, and it's a pity because they would have a rockin' good time if they were ...

**Showdown at Sunsplash Estates**

**Chapter One**

**Looking for Bubba the Unsubba**

The first unusual thing about the Florida home invasion thing was that the first big break came from Hotchner. Hotch was an ace negotiator and not half bad at interrogation, but broad intuitive leaps based on evidence weren't usually his strong suit.

But there he was, mopping his brow in Tampa, in the public-employee-sector version of air conditioning in a mid-July marked by merciless heat and humidity that left even the locals weak and wrung out, and he said, "Wait a minute. Post mortem. Like the bubble bath guy."

And at the time, nobody but Morgan took him seriously. And Morgan only took him seriously because he was desperate for any new kind of direction. Unlike, say, Rossi, Prentiss, and Reid, who were still beating their brains out at victimology. Morgan had discarded victimology hours earlier, when Baby Girl could find nothing in common among the victims other than living on the Gulf Coast of Florida, using exterminators, and having family members who were conservative Christians of assorted denominations.

Which covered pretty much everyone along the Gulf Coast.

Four homes invaded over seven months. Four families, a total of thirteen people, shot and/or stabbed, along with all the family pets, right down to tropical fish. After they were dead, the bodies, both people and pets, were stomped extensively by two separate sets of boots. Then someone scrawled **1040** on various walls in the victims' blood. Human, animal – they weren't picky.

The meaning of 1040 was still up in the air. Time, date, place? The IRS? Motor oil?

By contrast, the bubble bath guy, whom the public called the Cheerleader Killer and the BAU team officially coded GCBUBMAN and privately called Bubba the Unsubba, had seized fifteen girls in their late teens all along the Gulf Coast from Florida to Texas over a three-year period. He raped and tortured them, strangled them, then he soaked them in bubble bath, destroying all the physical evidence, before he dumped their remains along country roads. The BAU had looked at Bubba on and off for two of those three years and still had nothing but a way-too-general profile to go on.

Maybe it was just because Hotch took every BAU failure so damn personally.

"_Wait a minute," he had said. "Post mortem. Like the bubble bath guy."_

And everyone kind of went, _yeah, uh-huh_, and continued on their personal tracks except for Morgan, who asked Garcia what would happen if they merged Bubba with the 1040 guys.

"Interesting," she said after a moment. "The Diaz girl disappeared two days after the Naples invasion. The Chan girl was dumped three days before Pensacola. They weren't actually from those cities, but they were from a forty-five, fifty mile radius. Statistically, I'd say that it's seriously significant."

Which led to the second interesting thing about the Florida home invasion thing, which was that Morgan and Hotchner spent most of the day in Sarasota, talking to people who had been involved with the very first Bubba case, in April of 2007. This time, though, they were looking for potential perpetrator _pairs_ that might have shown up on the suspect lists.

They got nothing that looked immediately exciting, but they at least had new ground to turn, new directions to take. Sometimes a fresh mindset was all it took.

In mid-afternoon, they reluctantly climbed back into the SUV they had been assigned, one whose A/C output was markedly puny considering how much noise it made, and started back toward Tampa. Even with the system cranked to the (deafening) max, Derek fanned himself with a folded road map. Hotchner loosened his tie. Neither of them spoke much; it took too much energy.

Then his cell sounded.

He pressed _Talk_. "Morgan."

"We may have something solid here," Rossi said. "We've been working our way through the Russells' recent phone records. The elder Mrs. Russell, Miriam, made several calls last week to an Edgar Dugan, he's a retired minister, Mrs. Russell's former pastor. We called him and he's anxious to speak to us, says he thinks that he may have useful information."

"Define useful information."

There was the briefest of hesitations. "He said that the home invasions and the Cheerleader killings are being done by the same two guys."

"What?" Morgan gasped. "Are you serious?"

He sensed Hotchner suddenly perking up, taking interest behind the wheel.

"Dead serious," Rossi replied. "And there's more. He says they have deep ties here–"

"Deep ties where? Hey, I'm putting you on speaker, not that it'll help much with this son-of-a-bitching lousy car–"

Rossi tried to talk again.

"Hold on," Morgan said. Then, murmuring an apology to Hotch, he shut off the A/C. "Go on, Rossi."

"–Deep ties in the Tampa-to-Venice area, including ties to law enforcement. He said that Mrs. Russell thought she knew who the Cheerleader Killers were. Killers. Plural. He said that's why she was killed – she was the significant victim Tuesday night – and he and his wife suspect that they may be next, because they have been asking the same kinds of question that Mrs. Russell was asking, to some of the same people."

Morgan whistled. "He volunteered all that?"

"That, and more. He says that these guys have committed at least six home invasions, not four, but the other two were earlier and didn't look the same as this last bunch. He named the two families and Garcia's already punched them into the system. One of them occurred in Athens, Georgia, on the _very same weekend_ that the LaBelle girl was taken."

"Where is this guy? And why hasn't he spoken up before?"

"He said that he and his wife thought it was just an interesting topic for speculation until the calls from Mrs. Russell – and since she was killed, they've been afraid to approach the locals, not knowing who these guys' contacts are. He said that us calling him was an answer to his prayers. As for where he is, he's out your way. That's why I called you. They're about midway between Venice and Sarasota – Garcia's sending you all the data."

"OK, thanks," Derek said. "You heard that?" he said to Hotch.

"Yes." Hotchner's face might be red and sweat-soaked in the absence of air conditioning, but relief was evident in his voice. He was already actively looking for a place to turn the SUV around and head back southward. "About time we caught a break on this."

"Sure is. OK, the location info is coming in now. It's 126 Kimball Court, Sunsplash Estates. Gated community, Garcia says. They've already notified security that we're coming. I've got the coordinates here … "

Hotchner reached gratefully for the A/C controls.

~ o ~

Half an hour later, they pulled up at the guard kiosk. Brutally hot air hit them even through the ineffectual blasting of the A/C as Hotchner ran the window down. He presented his creds and said, "Agents Aaron Hotchner and Derek Morgan, to see the Reverend Edgar Dugan."

The guard looked them and their car over. "Are they expecting you?"

"Yes, we're expected around four."

The guard consulted both his wristwatch and a clipboard. "Right," he said. "Have you been here before?" When they replied in the negative, he said, "Did, ah, did the Rev and his wife give you any tips on basic behavior in the community?"

Hotch frowned. "Nothing specific," he said.

The guard made a noise that could have been amusement.

Morgan started to wonder whether the Sunsplash Estates were an upscale mental institution. He wanted to see something of the layout, but the only thing visible before them was a high white stone wall with the name of the community in raised metal letters, and twin openings for vehicles on either side, about twenty feet each direction from the gate house.

"Well," the guard said, "you don't have to be like everybody else, but it's considered a mark of courtesy and respect to follow your hosts' lead. But being a friend of The Rev's, I suspect you already know that."

"Thank you," Hotchner said. He accepted the parking authorization card and tucked it into the pocket on his sun visor. Then, with a friendly wave at the guard, he slid the SUV back into Drive and began negotiating his way around the maze of walls like the whatever-you-called-those-things, those entry ports of medieval castles.

Three turns between high fieldstone walls festooned with ivy and shaded by broad and dark-leaved trees led them into blindingly bright sunlight. It reflected off dozens of small, pristine white houses in lazy loops that encircled the green and white umbrellas of an impeccably landscaped central park with fountains, tennis courts, playgrounds – and an Olympic-sized pool right in the middle of everything.

"Aw, Christ," Aaron breathed, and he did not sound a bit happy.

Morgan squinted through his shades, held the road map up as a sunshield, and gasped aloud.

Before them, children romped. Residents of all ages frolicked in the pools – there were three of them, one for toddlers and one for younger children in addition to the main one, Morgan could see now. Mothers – or nannies – with sun-shaded strollers sat on benches and gossiped as they rocked their infants rhythmically. Adults and a few teenagers played baseball, tennis, volleyball and Frisbee. Almost everyone wore a hat, a billed ball cap or a Panama or a broad-brimmed sun hat. Some, especially the bike riders and the joggers, wore socks and sneakers.

Nobody wore much of anything else.

"It's, it's–" Morgan began lamely. "It's a nudist colony? Let me call Baby Girl, see what she can tell us _about_–"

"_Sunsplash Estates, a Clothing Optional Residential and Resort Community_, it says on those umbrellas over there," Hotchner informed him, sounding even more unhappy by the second. "_Established in 2003_. It would have been helpful if the Reverend Edgar Dugan had mentioned that."

_Ya think?_

"No wonder the guard was grinning when we said Dugan hadn't given us any tips," Derek said darkly. "Probably laughing his ass off thinking of a couple FBI agents stripping off to–"

"No," Hotchner said, his tone crisp, authoritative. "No way, Morgan. Abso-fucking-lutely no way. It says 'clothing optional,' not 'clothing forbidden.'"

Morgan raised one eyebrow. He'd been about to say that he'd just been playing, but he was somewhat taken aback by Hotchner's choice of words. He had rarely known Mr. I-Represent-the-Bureau to use foul language on the job. He had to be pretty damned upset to drop that F-bomb during work hours.

"Turn left here, Hotch," he said instead. "Then take the next left, that's Kimball Court, and it's the third house down on the right."

_Ohhh, man. I am so gonna get Garcia for not picking up on that little clue ..._


	2. Looking Anywhere but There

A/N Yeah, I know, no "Watchers" last week due to Holiday Challenge stuff, and probably not this week because this plot weasel seized me by the throat. Soon, though. I promise. And as always, these toons are not mine, and it's a pity because they would have a rockin' good time if they were ...

**Showdown at Sunsplash Estates**

**Chapter Two**

**Looking Anywhere but There**

"Hello, gentlemen!" the Reverend Edgar Dugan said, and studied their credentials. He had a deep tan, a perfect Central Casting pastor's voice, deep and rich, blue eyes ringed by laugh lines, and a full head of silver hair. He wore a pair of tiny white cotton shorts that, since they were wet, really hid nothing. "Won't you come in?"

He ushered them into a small, dimly lit living room with two ceiling fans that rotated with a soft swish. The furniture was colonial style. The color scheme seemed to be red, white, and blue. The walls featured a few family photos and a painting of deer in a snowy forest. Morgan noticed four small stacks of towels in solid colors, matching the decor of the room, arrayed in various areas.

The Dugans' air-conditioning was not running. The room was warm, but not stifling.

"You're from the FBI?" a female voice asked. A woman with a round face, rounded shoulders, and a (wet, practically transparent) little white cotton wrap buttoned around her rounded torso emerged from the kitchen. "And may I see your identification?" She was at least ten years younger than her husband, with natural blonde hair going naturally gray and gathered carelessly together with a barrette.

"My wife," Dugan said. "Rosemary Conover. She retained her maiden name."

"Call me Rose," Ms Conover said. "Iced tea?"

Morgan and Hotchner said "Yes, please," just about in unison, and the Reverend Dugan gave a chuckle.

"Do they teach you that in FBI school? And call me Freddy. Won't you sit down?" He indicated an area where a couch and three armchairs were gathered. "The towels are – ah, but you won't need them."

Morgan took one armchair and Hotch took another. Derek wondered whether it would be bad form to ask Freddy and Rose to put more clothes on, because the wet cotton left nothing to the imagination, including Freddy's circumcision and the maroon birthmark on the aureole of Rose's right nipple.

"When you spoke to Agent Rossi earlier this afternoon," Hotch began, "you indicated that you were confident Mrs. Russell knew the identity of the people the press calls the Cheerleader Killers."

"Indeed," Freddy said, nodding vigorously. "Brian Stafford and Scotty Benjamin." He leaned forward and opened a manila folder that sat on the coffee table. "These aren't good pictures, I'm afraid – church directories aren't set up to provide mug shots, and some of these date back ten and twelve years, but, here – this is Brian. The Staffords were members of my congregation in Sarasota for several years. Scotty lived in Clearwater, but he came along to quite a few church functions, especially youth events, as Brian's guest. I found three shots with Scotty in them, but none of them is very useful."

They shuffled through photocopies or printouts of a couple dozen photos, each carefully labeled in the bottom margin with the identities of the subjects and the approximate dates. "Yeah," Morgan said ambiguously. Hotchner replied with a vague affirmative sound of his own. Both had noticed the Stafford boy's tendency to hold himself apart from the group and the look of seething resentment he sometimes wore when he was unaware that he was being photographed. It could be a particularly troubled adolescence, or it could be sociopathy.

"Do you know the significance of 1040?" Morgan asked.

"I believe so," said Dugan. "as a matter of fact, that was one of the big points leading Rose and me to start speculating that it was Brian and Scotty. You see, when the boys are together, they call themselves, the joined entity, you might say, 'Joshua.' It was a bit of an obsession with them. They would spend hours talking about businesses that they would start together, bands they would form, and they all had 'Joshua' in the name. I always assumed that it referred to the biblical hero, but I may have been mistaken."

"They have a Web business now," Rose said, coming from the kitchen with four tall glasses. She seemed to have misplaced her little wrap. "Webdazzle by Joshua."

"And the ten-forty?" Hotch asked. Intent on facts, he had apparently he missed Rose's exposure.

"Well, it was killing the animals, too, that first got our attention," Freddy said. "In the book of Joshua, God commands the army to kill all living things in the enemy's territory. Chapter ten, verse forty, says, _So Joshua smote all the country of the hills, and of the south, and of the vale, and of the springs, and all their kings: he left none remaining, but utterly destroyed all that breathed, as the Lord God of Israel commanded._ So, ten-forty. Joshua 10:40."

"Although fish don't breathe," Rose observed. "But they were probably using a more modern translation." 

"What led Mrs. Russell to suspect the Stafford boy?" Hotch asked.

Dugan frowned. "I think that Miriam caught the same, well, vibes from him that Rose and I felt. He was always a source of, well, concern, if not outright worry. Anger, entitlement – and when he thought he was under scrutiny, a certain fake sugary sweetness that was scarier than the anger. Plus at least two parts of what you guys call the homicidal triad – fire-setting and cruelty to animals. He may have wet the bed, too – nobody ever mentioned it to me, though."

"You're familiar with the homicidal triad?"

Dugan smiled sadly. "A pastor's job is not only to represent the good but to recognize evil, Mr. Hotchner. We read, we study, and we observe." He tapped the folder. "I would like to specify here, quickly, that nothing I am telling you comes from any pastoral confidences. It's – Oh, thank you, dear," he said to his wife, accepting a tall glass of iced tea, "but I think you had better cover yourself up again for our guests, honey."

Before Morgan could thank the pastor for his sensitivity, Aaron said, "No, sir, this is your community and your home. These are your ways. As long as you don't insist we take _our_ clothes _off_, we won't object if you don't put yours _on_. And thank you," he added, nodding courteously to Rose as she handed him his beverage. Not so much as blinking at the broad expanse of rosy flesh. "You were saying, Pastor Dugan?"

"It's all just observations that Rose and I and others have made over the years about those two boys," Dugan finished. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he lifted his rump off the couch and skinned his little shorts down his legs and pulled them off his feet. He snagged a towel and slipped it under his bare bum, and smiled. "_Much_ better."

"Aren't you afraid of skin cancer?" Derek asked, toying nervously with his tea. He had four critical questions, but that was the only one he dared to ask.

_Trying desperately not to look at the pastor's junk or his wife's tits…_

"The best strategy," Rose Conover murmured in his ear, as though reading his thoughts, "is to take a good, deliberate look at it right away and demystify it. Then it won't trouble you."

"The way I see it," Freddy replied, still on the subject of skin cancer, "is that something's going to kill me eventually anyway. And to live in a world where I can't feel the sun on my skin isn't living. We all take one risk or another, sir. This is mine." He made a vague gesture indicating the house, or more likely, the whole of Sunsplash Estates. "This is ours."

"Oh, my goodness," Rose said. Derek glanced up to see the pastor's (naked!) wife peering out the front window. "Gentlemen, that's a terribly official looking car."

_She may be fat, but that's a fine looking butt, I am so going to hell for even looking at it …_

"Yes," Morgan said. "Oh, right – you're afraid that–"

"With good reason," Pastor Freddy said. "It was only ten days ago that Miriam first made contact with the Sarasota police–"

"I think it was Bradenton she called first," Rose interrupted. "Where Scotty's aunt–"

"At any rate, she made contact with law enforcement," Freddy continued. "And eight days later she was dead. Her and her second husband, and her step-son and his wife and their little girl. And some of these crackers – and I'm a cracker myself, so is Rosie, both of us born within thirty miles of where we're sitting – some of these crackers are as family-first as any feuding Appalachian clan. Law enforcement or not, they'll do whatever they can to protect their kinfolk."

"So you want us to – move the car?" Morgan hazarded.

"Please, sir," Rose said. "I'll pull ours out of the garage and you can drive yours right in. I'll park to the side so you won't be blocked if you have to make an emergency, you know, like to a crime scene or something."

_OK, let's do this._

Morgan looked deliberately at Rose's breasts and crotch, then into her eyes. "I can do that for you, ma'am. Hotch, can I have the keys, please?"

Aaron wordlessly handed them over. He seemed to be managing the sight of naked senior citizens by concentrating his attention on the pictures of the Stafford boy.

_Chicken._

Something in Morgan expected that Rose would throw on a housecoat or wrap to go outside, but, of course, it was Sunsplash Estates. She snagged the car keys off a hook by the door and headed outside in bare feet and barrette. Everybody was naked here. Well, everybody except for the security guard, Hotchner, and himself. 

When he returned from moving the car, Freddy and Rose were misting themselves from small plastic bottles. Freddy was explaining how at his age, moving from air conditioning to tropic temperatures and back again was uncomfortable, so they cooled via mist and ceiling fans.

"Ah, you're back," he said to Morgan.

Morgan looked at the pastor's crotch. Freddy beamed approval.

_Man, I am so going to hell for this …_

~ o ~

For two hours, Freddy and Rose named names, gave dates, and made a persuasive case that Brian Stafford and Scott Benjamin, AKA Joshua, were likely both the 1040 home invaders and Bubba the Unsubba. They provided details that enabled Garcia to confirm correlations among the 1040 victims, details that had not shown up in the Bureau's databases.

From time to time Morgan would look up for something and for one lunatic instant think, _Holy crap, they're naked!_ But for the most part he discovered that it no longer mattered. He had no idea how the Dugans' nudity was affecting Hotchner, who was in stoneface mode, zeroing in on potential UNSUBs to the exclusion of everything else. For himself, Morgan was starting to look almost longingly at Freddy's spray bottle with its cool water with a touch of isopropyl alcohol. (Rose's contained traces of cologne.)

If he had come here alone, he realized, without Mr. FBI, he might well have stripped down by now. He might have been sitting on a towel – everyone here sat on a towel when naked; it was a point of courtesy and sanitation – enjoying the air moving across his bare skin.

Shortly after six o'clock, just as they were discussing breaking for the night and coming back the next day, the phone rang. Dugan rose to answer it, his naked groin passing by directly at Morgan's eye level – now, that was something you didn't see every day, working for the BAU – and Rose picked up the thread of what might be the dominant boy's – Brian's – stressor that triggered his homicidal impulses, a youth leader who deliberately embarrassed him.

"And she was a cheerleader," she said. "Bright and perky and cheerful and–" She looked up, startled, at her husband. "What, love?"

"Larrimore Stafford," Freddy said, his voice tense. "One of Brian's uncles. He said he wanted to drop by, get back in touch." Rose's hands flew to her mouth, and she gasped. "I told him we had company," the pastor continued, "and he said that was OK, he always liked meeting our friends. He was pretty insistent. I thought it best to say, sure, come on by, we'll throw on a couple more steaks."

Hotch seemed concerned. "You think they're coming to attack you?"

"No, I think they're coming to make sure we're here, and maybe to feel us out, find out what we think, whether we've been talking to anyone."

"I understand," Morgan said. "As long as we can come back tomorrow–"

"No," Hotchner said. When everyone turned to him, he said, "This is an intelligence gathering opportunity for us. Seeing Brian's family, seeing how they interact, what they say – we can probably learn more from them than they can from us." He looked up at Dugan. "You already told them that you have friends over. Fine. We're your friends. I presume not all your friends undress?"

Maybe just a little too much pathetic hopefulness in that question, Morgan decided with a private grin. While he respected and admired the Unit Chief enormously, Hotchner could be relentlessly, almost obnoxiously straight-arrow. There was a certain satisfaction in watching him squirm.

"Actually, almost all of them do undress," said Freddy in kind tones. Understanding tones. "But not all. Not all."

"How about the Staffords?"

"Oh, they're definitely into it," Rose supplied. "Especially when it gets cool and we get in the hot tub out back."

"But not everyone–" A little desperation was starting to show on Hotchner's features.

"Hey," Morgan said, barely restraining his glee, "It's OK with me. I don't mind getting _au naturel_ for the team." 


	3. Looking Pretty Normal

**EEEK! This will be five chapters! I am sooo sorry; **

**my outline was so clear, but … stuff happens.**

A/N Yeah, I know, no "Watchers" last week due to Holiday Challenge stuff, and probably not this week because this plot weasel seized me by the throat. Soon, though. I promise. And as always, these toons are not mine, and it's a pity because they would have a rockin' good time if they were ...

**Showdown at Sunsplash Estates**

**Chapter Three**

**Looking Pretty Normal**

Morgan suppressed a frown. There was something wrong, something a little bit off about the Reverend Dugan since the phone call from the Staffords. Freddy was ever so slightly hesitant, tentative, as though he feared he might get in trouble. When he glanced at his wife from time to time, he seemed even more worried.

A major disadvantage to being an essentially honest man was that lies did not come easily, and rarely without significant tells.

"You don't have to stay," Dugan said.

Morgan, who was still dressed and had set up his notebook computer on the coffee table, said, "I know that. But as long as we don't know where these guys' RV is currently located and we don't know which local LEOs to trust, their relatives are our best shot."

"That's RVs, as in plural, my pet," Penelope Garcia said via webcam. "Two registered to Brian Stafford, one to Scott Benjamin, and two to Webdazzle by Joshua, LLC."

"Excuse me, my name is Rose Conover," Freddy's wife said, leaning over Morgan's shoulder. "Have you checked other combinations? They used to love playing with their names, calling each other Brian Benjamin or Stafford Brian or Stafford Scott, like that, playing identity games."

Bless Garcia's heart, although her eyes widened somewhat at the sight of Rose's boobies hanging beside Derek's neck, she smiled and said, "Checking that right now, ma'am," as though she regularly teleconferenced with naked women.

"The nature of your community eliminates some options we might exercise otherwise," said Hotchner. "For instance, we can't call in a tactical squad to blend in with the neighborhood while they do their surveillance." 

"True," Dugan said. "That many cottontails would be pretty noticeable."

"Cottont– never mind, I figured it out," Hotchner sighed. "Tanned everywhere but the tail, right?" 

"Exactly."

"Guys, these boys must spend their entire profit margin on rolling stock," Garcia said with disgust. "I have another two RVs hidden under alternative names, but the licensing and insurance fees are paid through Webdazzle's or Scott Benjamin's accounts. Updates coming momentarily to Pastor Dugan's fax line.

Morgan consulted the time readout on the Dugans' DVR: six-thirty-three. Dugan had told them that it would take forty-five minutes for the Staffords to reach Sunsplash Estates through evening traffic, so – somewhere around seven o'clock.

"If you're serious about staying, Mr. Hotchner," Rose said, "and serious about representing yourself as a visiting friend, you'll want to lose the coat and tie. In this house, in this heat, on a Friday evening, not even an undertaker or an insurance salesman is going to wear a coat and tie. You might as well walk around flashing your badge."

Hotch looked at Morgan, startled. "Crap. Our weapons."

"Aw, come on, Hotch," he said, trying not to grin. "Wouldn't we look sharp wearing nothing but Kevlar and a Glock?"

But, yeah. Weapon really would be a problem.

"In my towel," he said finally. "I'll keep it folded in my towel. You can keep yours folded in your coat."

Hotchner nodded. With something like a sigh of resignation, he removed his jacket and started to loosen his tie.

"Hotch," Derek said quietly, so if the chief disagreed he wouldn't feel that his position had been forced. "Hotch, I'm ready to do this now. Do you have a problem with this?"

"With you?" Aaron shook his head. "Do whatever you think is right." Another sigh. "I can't."

"That's quite all right," Freddy assured him. "You don't have to. People's modesty levels are unique and personal to them."

It was nice, Derek reflected, that the minister referred to _modesty levels_, and not to hang-ups or shyness.

But Hotchner lowered his eyes. "It's not that. I can do the tie and the jacket. But – I have … issues."

Rev made a gentle scoffing noise. "I can guarantee that you won't have a woody problem. I'll bet you haven't had a single boner since you drove in to the place. And if you do, because we all do from time to time, it won't last, and nobody cares."

In retrospect, Derek realized, no, even _he_ hadn't. Naked bodies that were just naked bodies, without posing or deliberate tension, simply weren't erotic. He risked a glance at Hotchner and saw that while his head was still down, he hadn't blushed and his jaw hadn't tightened. So it was unlikely he feared potential hard-on problems.

"No, I have … scars," he finished in what was almost a whisper.

_Of course_, Morgan realized. _And that's why he always manages not to be in the locker room __with the rest of the guys_. He had begun to speculate privately, sharing it with no one else, that the unit chief had developed sexual orientation issues. He had even been full enough of himself that he had suspected that his own fine ripped physique had been too tempting for Hotch to gaze upon without physiologically giving himself away.

_The scars. Of course._

_God, you're such a fucking ego, Morgan._

"Nobody here will mind," Rose said in a very soft voice. "Thurmond has a skin condition and Jackie has had a double mastectomy. But we're all here to be comfortable, not to make you or anyone else uncomfortable. Whatever you decide is what's right for you."

As she spoke, Hotch removed his tie and rolled his sleeves to the elbow. Even on his forearms there were visible defensive scars from his encounter with The Reaper less than two years earlier. Derek wondered whether the couple before him would even realize the nature of the sacrifice the chief was making. His suit and tie practically defined him, provided the armor for his soul, so to speak.

"You do whatever's comfortable for you, Hotch," Morgan said to the unit chief. Then he bent to his computer. "Shutting you down now, Baby Girl," he said to Garcia, "'cause I'm about to go all the way."

And as tender, as outrageous, as borderline sexual-harassment as their relationship could be, she offered no objection. "Be safe," she said. "Both of you, All of you."

He peeled his shirt off and Freddy gasped. "You have some impressive body art there," he said. "Great workmanship."

Rose turned from the closet, where she was hanging up Hotch's coat, and gazed with frank admiration at Morgan's tattooed torso. "Beautiful," she said. "The lion on your shoulder, in particular. What are the letters on your other arm?"

Derek shrugged. "The initials of someone who more or less made me who I am today. They're there to remind me that I'm not just Derek Morgan."

Belatedly starting to feel more than a little bit weird at the idea of shedding his trousers in front of strangers, especially in his role as a Supervisory Special Agent for the FBI, he said, "Um, do you, like, have a dressing room?"

"Ordinarily, no," Dugan replied with an ill-suppressed grin. "Seems kind of silly to appear naked in public but to undress in private. But for first-timers, sure. Anything to make the transition easier. Especially since we've been socialized to associate disrobing with sexual activity. The guest bedroom is down that hall, second door on your right. Or if 'bedroom' doesn't help, the bathroom is straight ahead at the end of the hall."

"He means the bedroom ambiance," Rose added. She beamed at Aaron. "Would you like to help me get dinner started?" 

"Happy to." Hotch swathed his gun and holster in a bright red towel, tucked it under his arm, and followed her into the kitchen.

_Oh, screw this._

Derek unsnapped, unzipped, and dropped pants and shorts quickly, in one fluid movement, before he could change his mind. He toed his loafers off and gathered the whole mess into his arms. "Good place to stow these?" he asked, as he bent to remove his socks.

"Anywhere is fine," Dugan told him. "Closet, or just lay them out on that cedar chest over there. And don't forget to grab a towel. You don't sit anywhere without a towel."

"Like the _Hitchhiker's Guide_," science fiction geek Derek Morgan said with a grin. "You gotta know where your towel is."

Dugan looked blank; evidently not a big Douglas Adams fan.

He realized that he was holding his clothing in front of his groin. Deliberately, he tucked the bundle under one arm.

The persistent voice of his ego chuckled, _Yeah, check out __these__ goodies, baby._

And the Reverend Dugan certainly did look at his goodies, with the casually curious air of a man checking out a new acquaintance over from top to toe. No staring. No lingering glances.

In the world of genital styles, Morgan was a "shower," one whose quiescent member displays most of its full length, as opposed to the "growers," who present as thick and stubby, but pop out to equally impressive lengths when stimulated. Dugan, for example, was a grower. Either that, or he was what Jason Gideon – who had always harbored a verbal mean streak they all pretended not to notice – would have dismissed as a "short stack."

_And I'm looking at a man of God, and I'm thinking about his equipment. Ooh, baby, I'm going straight to hell..._

Morgan stood very still, acclimating himself to the sensation of nakedness outside bed, bath, or locker room, and assuring himself that if he did pop a little wood, it wouldn't be the first that they'd ever seen. The air felt extraordinary moving against the fine sheen of sweat on his all-over bare skin. He heard himself groan with pleasure: He hadn't been this comfortable since they first arrived in Florida – cool, but without the dryness that A/C always seemed to create.

"And now," he said sternly to Dugan as he settled his bare posterior on a bright blue towel, "tell me what you're hiding, what you're worried about. Because you are. It shows all over you."

The Reverend Dugan glanced once furtively toward the kitchen. "I may have made a terrible error in judgment," he said softly.

Tell me about it," Morgan directed in his best negotiator's tones.

Another quick look toward the kitchen. "I – I don't like suspense," he confided in a low and embarrassed voice. "And I can't bear the thought of spending weeks, maybe even months, looking over my shoulder – so – when I spoke to the Staffords, I told them that the FBI had requested that we come in for an interview tomorrow. I didn't say why, and they didn't ask. But I had this notion that if I forced the issue, laid an arbitrary time limit on anything the boys might have in mind, I could get whatever happened over with and stop worrying about anything happening to Rosie."

Morgan didn't even try to disguise his impatience. "And what in the hell was that supposed to accomplish?" he said. "Guarantee that you'll get attacked tonight? Were we supposed to stay here and protect you?"

Dugan's jaw tightened. "I served in the military, sir, and Rosie and I are crackers. We've been hunting since our fingers were strong enough to pull a trigger. If they come for us tonight – and I think that they will – then we'll be ready for them and they won't be expecting us to be armed. For some reason, people tend to get the impression that social nudists are all a bunch of tofu and PETA types, wife-swappers, radicals, and gun-control nuts. Maybe it's because a lot of the women don't obsess on shaving.

"But we're a cross-section of society, Mr, Morgan. And around here, that means pretty much Red-Staters. Lots of conservative Christians, hunters, a few libertarians mixed in with the tofu and the PETA types. Tolerant, but set in our own beliefs.

"So, no, sir, I do not need protection. Would I shoot some snotnose kids who tried to hurt my wife? Damn straight I would! And I wouldn't lose a minute's sleep over it." 

Morgan's sigh came clear from his toes.

"You're not helping, man," he told the retired pastor.

He got up and strolled to the kitchen door.

Aaron Hotchner sat at the kitchen table chopping vegetables. Across from where he sat, Rose Conover mixed something in a large ceramic bowl. Their body posture was relaxed and their eye contact was moderate. Once Rose reached out and touched Hotch's wrist. He reacted to it positively. Whatever they were talking about, they were having a capital-C Conversation.

Morgan decided, for better or for worse, to handle Cowboy Freddy on his own and leave the Unit Chief to whatever he was doing. Maybe he was talking some sense into Rosie.


	4. Looking Innocent

A/N Yeah, I know, no "Watchers" last week due to Holiday Challenge stuff, and probably not this week because this plot weasel seized me by the throat. Soon, though. I promise. And as always, these toons are not mine, and it's a pity because they would have a rockin' good time if they were ...

**Showdown at Sunsplash Estates**

**Chapter Four**

**Looking innocent**

They quickly fell into an easy pattern, just like summer cookouts at his grandmother's, back in Chicago. Rose would ask Freddy to bring stuff out. Derek and Freddy would track it down and schlep it out and set it on the long picnic table. A few minutes later, Aaron – who had evidently been tapped to serve as Messenger of Doom – would poke his head into the living room and say something like, "Rose said she wanted the blue china. She said you'd know what she meant."

And Freddy would growl, "Blue china? We have blue china? Then where in the Sam Hill does she keep it?"

And Aaron would roll his eyes helplessly and return to the back yard for further instructions from the Boss of all Dinner Bosses.

At least he had lost the dress shirt. The shoes and socks, too. He wore his dress pants and his tee shirt.

The third time he came in – Derek and Freddy had brought the wrong citronella candles; she wanted the good ones, the ones in the Radio Shack box in the storage room – Rose Conover materialized beside him and snaked her arm around his waist.

"Freddy, love, don't you think Roger's shorts would fit him? Look at him; he has a bubble butt and no hips, just like Roger–"

"I'm fine, Rosie," Hotch protested feebly. "Really. I'm just fine like this."

"Come on, honey, turn around–"

"Really, Ms Conover–" Turning on his FBI voice seemed to have no effect on the relentlessly cheerful woman. Hotchner was one of the least touchy-feely people Derek had ever met, and watching the battle among his personal boundaries, his professional standards, and common courtesy play out across his features was – well, kind of comical.

Rose fixed her husband with a _do-it-now_ glare. "Just check and see, will you, sweetheart? I put Roger's old stuff in that blue hamper in the utility room. It's in a bag marked with his initials. Roger's our number-three son," she explained to Derek. "Our baby. He's a little bit shorter than Aaron, but just about the same distance around, don't you think, sweetie? Turn around, Aaron, show him your tushie–"

Hotch looked about ready to explode, not from anger, but from sheer discomfort.

"How many kids do y'all have?" Derek asked, hoping to distract them, at least for a moment, from discussing Aaron Hotchner's butt.

Six," Rose replied immediately. "One's Freddy's daughter with Deborah – she was his first wife; she died in 'sixty-seven – and then we had three boys and two girls. Maggie's forty-seven, and ours range from forty-one down to thirty-two, that's Roger. Seventeen grand-babies and counting. Come on, Freddy, make yourself useful. I'll help you move the bicycles out of the way."

The pastor and his ebullient wife vanished to the far side of the small house in search of shorts for Hotchner. Morgan hoped they weren't those itty bitty thin cotton ones that Freddy had worn when they first arrived; those things were worse than going bare.

"Rossi says they've sent some LEOs in to serve as extra pairs of eyes," Hotchner told him in a quiet voice.

"You've been talking to Rossi?"

Hotch nodded.

"But they say that the Staffords have family in local–"

"These guys are FDLE, Morgan – not Sarasota or Venice or any point between. They're from out-of-state originally, and they're allegedly comfortable at clothing optional beaches. And if there's any arrest made, we need locals on the scene anyway."

"Wait – so, we're really sending people in to blend in with the locals with their clothes off?" Morgan was unable to stifle a chuckle. "You realize we're getting uncovered to go undercover, right?"

Hotch had that stick-up-his-ass _Mr. FBI_ look all over him again. "The irony has not escaped me, Morgan."

"I notice nobody's commenting on _my_ behind," Derek said, unable to resist baiting the unit chief.

"Maybe because you're waggling it around for the world to see." It was a tribute to Aaron's self control that he managed to deliver that line without either obvious humor or anger.

"I prefer to think of it as for the world to _enjoy_," Morgan replied. "By the way, have you given any thought to your cover story?"

Hotch groaned. "I don't do undercover work. I've never done it. I only know how to be an agent and a lawyer."

"Fine," Morgan said. "What we–"

The Dugans' doorbell rang. A man's voice said, "Freddy? Rose? You in there or out back?"

"Crap," Hotchner muttered gloomily.

"Come on in, Larry!" Rose called. "We're in here for the moment."

The door opened to admit a huge man, deeply tanned but with a distinct (cough) cottontail. He had apparently been disrobing on the front stoop. He pulled his pants and shorts off his right leg and strode into the house clad in nothing but work boots and white tube socks. He had a massive barrel chest and enough fur on his chest and belly to knit into a sweater for Reid.

The Staffords were not truly nudists, Freddy Dugan had explained earlier. They were just really comfortable with their clothes off among friends. And Freddy and Rose were friends.

Morgan deliberately checked out his crotch. Cut. Grower.

His wife, substantially younger than he, was tanned all over her shapely body. She had huge blonde hair, courtesy of obvious extensions, and huge knockers, courtesy of obvious surgical augmentation. She wore nothing but Daisy Dukes and teetering ankle-strap heels, and as soon as she was indoors, she began to shimmy out of the shorts.

The man frowned just long enough for Morgan to deduce that he hadn't expected to run into a person of color – but he recovered his poise quickly. "Larrimore Stafford," he boomed as he thrust out his hand. "Call me Larry. This is my wife, Lynnette."

Then he checked out Morgan's, um, presentation.

Uncut. A show-er.

"Derek," Morgan said just as confidently.

"Oh my God," Lynnette gasped, "You're a model, aren't you?"

He chuckled.

_Yeah, I can work with that._

"Hello, beautiful," he said. "Yeah, that's me, honey. Derek. Just the one name. You've seen my work?" He flexed and popped a couple quick poses. He could almost hear Hotchner's eyes rolling.

But what next happened was that Hotch extended his own hand toward Stafford's. "Hi there," he said in a voice dripping confidence. "I represent Derek. My name's Aaron."

"Hi, Aaron," Lynnette squeaked.

"Just Aaron, too?" Larry Stafford asked, pumping Hotch's hand.

Hotch beamed. "Aaron Strauss."

_Man, I cannot wait to see how you write this up, man_, Morgan thought. _And if you don't, I guarantee that I will._

_~ o ~ _

It was without a doubt the most surreal dinner Morgan had ever attended: five naked people and Aaron, who had surrendered to Rose's insistence and exchanged his dress pants for a pair of Roger's old red nylon running shorts. All of them bowed their heads in prayer before digging in to steaks and baked potatoes, beer and salad in a suburban back yard. Freddy's laptop held his collection of MP3s, and that provided the evening's background music – mostly old-folks rock, from Little Richard through the British Invasion, folk-rock and a sprinkling of show tunes. Some newer stuff, if you defined "new" kind of broadly. A couple naked children who lived next door came to the fence and hung on it bugging Rose until she gave them melon and strawberry slices.

Morgan had no difficulty sustaining his cover identity. He had spent enough hours in body art studios, surrounded by exactly the kind of guy he was pretending to be, that it came almost automatically. Aaron had a little more difficulty, but his problem was that Lynnette would not leave him alone. When she wasn't asking how she could get some autographed photos of Derek, she was teasing Hotch about keeping his clothes on.

Finally he looked at her coldly and said, "Derek gets paid to strip. I don't."

Lynnette made a sour face and moved to the other side of the picnic table.

Over ice cream, Freddy casually inquired as to the health and well-being of all of Larrimore Stafford's family. Morgan listened closely, and he could detect no difference in the retired pastor's tones when he asked after Brian. Stafford, on the other hand, hesitated.

Morgan held his breath, waiting for the rookie mistake of brushing off the hesitation and letting it go, but he had not reckoned on the people skills Freddy had learned ministering to his congregations.

"Is everything all right with Brian?" he asked.

Stafford fiddled with his ice cream spoon. "It's hard to tell," he said. "He and Scotty live on the road nowadays, with that Web business they can do their jobs pretty much anywhere they land. I think his mom and dad would be happier knowing exactly where he is, and, frankly, they aren't real fond of Scotty."

"Scotty Benjamin?" Rose said as casually as a skilled interrogator. "Is he still seeing that Tanya, I can't recall her last name? The one with the nose ring?"

"Naw, she's long gone," Stafford said. "She wanted to get married, you know, like right now. And Scotty isn't a right-now kind of guy." He was trying to keep it matter of fact, but his hands gave him away. Larrimore Stafford was a worried man.

"Kids," Freddy said with sympathy, and smoothly asked after another nephew. Derek and Aaron exchanged quick glances. They would have done the same thing. Neither had any doubt that Larry Stafford would raise the subject himself in a few minutes.

Larry and Lynnette were drinking a lot of beer. Derek had limited himself to two; Aaron had stopped at one. Both of them now drank cold water from the refrigerator out of Rolling Rock bottles.

At the point where Larrimore decided to get up and sing – well, howl – along with Bob Seger, Rose said, "Oh, goodness," and bustled into the house, slinging her towel casually over her left shoulder. Maybe she didn't want any of that old time rock and roll, either, Morgan thought with a quiet smile. _I should join her._

When she returned, she was talking to someone.

Well, two someones.

"Oh, no," she was saying, "there's still plenty of everything if you'd like it. Well, I think the cornbread is a lost cause, but–"

"Don't go to any bother," a terrifyingly familiar voice said. "We were just in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by."

Morgan glanced up quickly at Aaron, who was staring forward, glassy-eyed, as though he had been punched in the head, looking at neither of the new arrivals, neither the slim, confident naked woman, nor her slender, obviously nervous, naked companion.

"These are Larry and Lynnette, former parishioners and good friends," Rose said. "And of course you remember Freddy."

"And this is Derek," Lynnette volunteered. "He's a famous body art model. And the cute but chicken guy is his agent, Aaron Strauss."

"Oh … really ..." Emily Prentiss panted, struggling to control her features. "How very nice … to meet … you both. I'm Emily, and this is my boyfriend, Spence."

"Wow," Lynnette said. "You're a cougar, huh?"

Emily shot Lynnette a look that, if only she had been as endowed with brains as with tits, she might have felt compelled to flee for her life.

And, God help him, the first thing Derek did was look at Reid.

_Cut. A show-er._


	5. Looking for Trouble

A/N Yeah, I know, no "Watchers" last week due to Holiday Challenge stuff, and probably not this week because this plot weasel seized me by the throat. Soon, though. I promise. And as always, these toons are not mine, and it's a pity because they would have a rockin' good time if they were ...

**Showdown at Sunsplash Estates**

**Chapter Five**

**Looking for Trouble**

"So what are you gonna see the FBI about tomorrow?" Larrimore slurred.

Dugan leaned his elbows on the table. "You heard about that guy who's killing all the girls, the guy they call the Cheerleader Killer?"

Larrimore tried to light a cigarette and failed. Morgan eased the butane lighter out of the man's fingers and lit it for him. "Look at this," Larrimore groused. "All these people are into _freedom_–" He bellowed the word. "–and nobody fucking _smokes_ any more. They're all too scared to get busted by the politically correct police." He glared at each of the guests in turn. "Doesn't anybody here smoke?"

"I do," Spencer Reid said, and Morgan's head about spun off his neck. "Only at home, though. I don't like to go around smelling like tobacco." He smiled faintly. "Although I guess nothing's going to stick to my clothes tonight, is it?" He stretched out slender fingers toward Stafford's pack of Benson and Hedges. "I hope that was an invitation?"

Stafford exhaled twin flumes from his nostrils. "Help yourself, kid."

As Morgan watched in stunned silence, Reid extracted a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. No choking. No coughing. As though he had been doing it for years. He smiled at Larrimore Stafford when he pushed the ashtray to a position midway between the two men, but didn't look at anyone else.

"What were you saying about the Cheerleader Killer?" Emily prompted. She sounded merely curious.

"There's no damn Cheerleader Killer," Stafford snarled. "People get killed is all. Especially girls who hang out with the wrong crowd. This whole 'serial killer' thing is a bunch of goddamn woo-woo the FBI fucking _made up_ to punch up their budget and get people good and scared. You notice they always kill them, right? These guys who are supposed to kill all those people, they're never alive for their day in court. So the law figures, well, we got this dead guy here, we'll just write off all those people who died, say Sammy Serial Killer did 'em all. Big win all the way around."

Literally hundreds of cases leaped to Morgan's mind, cases that flat-out contradicted every single thing Stafford said except for the three words, _people get killed_. It took a little self-control to keep his features smooth and his expression one of polite interest. For all kinds of reasons, including some legal considerations, the agents had to hold their tongues. He didn't dare look at the others. He knew they were struggling as hard as he was.

Having the clothes off helped, though. Difficult to feel official with your junk hanging out over the edge of the picnic bench.

_Ha, it would serve Hotch right if he was perfectly miserable now. That'd teach him to keep his clothes on ..._

"Well, Miriam Twitchell – remember Miriam, she made those mocha cupcakes for coffee hour every month? – Miriam called me last week, pretty sure she knew who the Cheerleader Killer was," Freddy Dugan replied in even tones. "She was scared, she said she was afraid that she would be killed next."

"Yeah, sure," Stafford said. "She's quite a little cheerleader, isn't she?"

Freddy rested his chin on his clasped hands. "Sounds like you don't know that she got killed on Tuesday night," he observed.

"What the fuck?" Stafford snorted. "No way. I wouldn't have missed hearing about that."

"Way," Freddy said, his voice still gentle. "She remarried a few years ago. Did you know that? Her husband was Burt Russell – you know, the family that got slaughtered the other night."

Something undefinable shone on Stafford's face. "No," he whispered. "Miriam Twitchell was in that – that massacre?" Then he shook his head vigorously. "But she wasn't killed by that so-called Cheerleader Killer, right?"

"Well, that's what the FBI wants to talk to me about. They're looking at the idea that the same person – or people – who are killing young girls are also slaughtering whole families. Did you know that six families were all wiped out in the same way? And three of them had family members who attended Living Waters with you and me and Miriam – and Everett and Marcie and their kids."

Morgan recognized "Everett and Marcie" from Freddy's earlier conversation as Brian Stafford's parents.

"But not all six, right?" Larrimore Stafford seemed desperate for something to hang his denial on. 

"No, not all six. But one of the first – one of the three who weren't from Living Waters – was Scotty Benjamin's great-aunt in Texas."

There was a long, painful silence, then Stafford's eyes narrowed. "Nettie, I want you to go get your pants on and go home. Take the truck. I'll get home anyhow."

"But, Larry–"

"Goddammit, _now_, Lynnette. Listen to me when I'm talkin' to you!"

"Larry!" It came out in three distinct syllables: _Lay-uh-ree!_

"Now!"

Morgan climbed free of the picnic table. "I'll walk you to the door," he said.

Storm clouds appeared on Larry's face. "You keep your fucking hands off my–"

"Jesus, man, chill," Morgan snarled. "She's not my type, honey."

"Are you insulting my wife?"

_Oh, God, please forgive me for this one– _

"Hell, no, man. I mean I'm more into, you know, my boy Aaron there!" Not daring to look in Hotchner's direction – hell, in any team member's direction – he inhaled deeply and blurted, "Why the hell you think I don't let anybody else see what I got there? You think he's wearing those panties 'cause, like, red's his _color_?"

He spun on his heel – a bare heel in grass sure felt different – and stalked toward the kitchen door. "I got your back, Lynnette, honey," he said. "I'll walk you to the door."

As they made their way through the kitchen and out into the living room, Lynnette said, "I shoulda realized a hot-looking guy like you would be – you know, one of _them_."

"Nah," he said with a chuckle, "I'm just playing with his head. I'm strictly into chicks, honey. And it's gonna take me _hours_ to get Aaron calmed down when this mess is over." He watched her struggle into her too-tight little denim shorts. "How do you think Larry is gonna get back to Sarasota?"

She picked up her husband's jeans off the floor and shook them until his keys fell out to the carpet with a rattle and a thud. "I could give a damn," she said. "Probably gonna call Brian to come get him. They were on the phone half the goddamn day. If he wasn't such a goddamn horndog all the time, I'd guess that _he's_ the one into boys."

The instant Lynnette was out the door, Morgan lunged for his phone and speed-dialed Rossi in Tampa.

"Brian's uncle had a long conversation with Brian today," he reported. "And we have reason to believe that Brian and Scott are headed this way. They may try to get past the guard at the gate by some ruse or other. Did Garcia get you all their vehicle data?"

"We got it," Rossi confirmed, "and we have three – no, four of their seven RVs located and under surveillance. Did Prentiss and Reid show up?"

"Sure did, man. You could have freakin' warned us they were coming–"

"Between us, Derek? Man to man? Nobody was sure that Reid would actually go through with it. Emily kept explaining to him about how he would be able to intellectualize it and after a couple minutes he wouldn't even notice it, but he had his doubts."

"Well, it is a fact that after a couple minutes you really don't notice unless something comes up to make you think of it." He heard an ill-muffled snicker on the other end of the line. "OK, let me rephrase that: '… unless something _occurs_ to make you think of it.' Jesus, Rossi, you have a filthy mind."

That's what my ex-wife used to say. Did Aaron tell you that we have FDLE folks in there on the ground?"

"Naked."

"Well," Rossi said patiently, as to an idiot. "Of course."

"I don't see you out here stripping down, Rossi."

"Yeah, well, I forgot to iron my ass this morning."

Morgan chortled. "Maybe that's Hotch's excuse."

There was a brief pause, then, "Aaron … is still dressed?"

"Well, not the whole suit thing; he's down to running shorts and his tee, but, yeah. And I got to be fair, I know it's the scars, and part of me can't blame him."

"Although I doubt that you've let that stop you from jerking his chain every chance you get."

"Hell no, man – guilty as charged!"

He rang off and started back toward the yard. He met Freddy in the kitchen, pouring water from the refrigerator jug into Aaron's beer bottle.

"Hey," the Reverend Freddy said, "I hope I wasn't too harsh or too easy with Larry out there."

"You did fine, man," Morgan assured him. "Sounded perfectly natural. One thing you can do for me, though, is you can get Larry out of here for a few minutes. We need to have a little conference. No more than ten, fifteen minutes, tops. We have people watching the house, so you won't be at any risk from Larry."

He expected the retired pastor to express surprise that Larrimore Stafford might be a threat, but Dugan merely nodded. "It's that family loyalty," he said. "I think that Larry is probably pretty sure now that the boys are killing the girls, but he can't make the leap to the family killings. But he'll never give them up – he's been cleaning up his kid brother's mistakes and going to bat for Everett's problem kid his whole life. He might tan Brian's hide privately, but he'll never, ever let him get arrested. Not if there's anything he can do to stop it."

"We think Brian and Scotty are on their way here."

Freddy nodded again, neither visibly surprised nor concerned. "I gathered that when he told Nettie he could get a ride home. He knows Rosie and I don't do much highway driving these days. And I was expecting them to start moving this way when I told Larrimore that I was going to the FBI." He popped the caps off two more Rolling Rocks and grasped all three of the bottles between his fingers. "Give me five minutes and I'll take him over to look at the plans for the putting green."

~ o ~

Once Freddy and Larry were safely off, towels on their shoulders and flip-flops on their feet, to look at the resort's development plans and maybe to take a quick dip in the pool, Morgan opened up his computer, connected to the Dugans' Wi-Fi, and the team gathered around.

And gasped.

Penelope Garcia flashed her usual bright smile, her usual cat glasses and hair doodads, her usual costume jewelry.

And also a sensational set of bared boobs.

"Hey," she said, her tone just a little less confident than her smile. "Just my way of showing support for my team." She raised her clenched fist. "You know, like, _Solidarność_, _baby_."

"Baby Girl," Morgan sighed, "you're crazy, you know – and I love you."

"You're amazing, Garcia!" Prentiss exclaimed.

"Yes, I am," Garcia replied. "Now hurry on home, my pretties. The air conditioning is playing hell with my nipples."

Prentiss nudged Morgan gently, surreptitiously.

On the other side of the notebook computer, Aaron Hotchner stood with his head bowed, looking as stricken and lost as Derek had ever seen him.

Hesitating, biting his lip, and finally raising the hem of his sweat-soaked tee.

Morgan longed to reassure him, to tell him that his scars were a badge of honor, not a cause for shame, but he knew that his words would have the opposite effect on the proud and stoic Hotchner, who demanded so much from his team, yet demanded twice that from himself. He would forever look at those wounds and think, how can I be trusted to protect my team when I can't even protect myself?

Finally he nodded, as though to himself, and murmured, "Right. Absolutely. _Solidarność_, _baby_." In one rapid, almost angry motion, he ripped off the spotless white tee shirt. The shorts followed an instant later.

_Cut. Show-er. Good God, is the whole BAU show-ers? Gotta get Rossi's pants off him ..._

_And the scars, holy mother of God, the scars. _So much longer and thicker and more ragged than Derek had imagined them.

"When we get back to the District," Prentiss breathed in his ear, "we have to go dig up that motherfucker Foyet and kill him again. Once just wasn't enough."

"Yeah," he whispered back.

Connected at last to their brain center, they pooled all the data they had gathered. They conference-called (voice only) with Rossi and the lead FDLE officer on site.

"They're in," Rossi said, suddenly. "The guard at the gate just called. They claimed to be cable company service reps, there to make a repair. He was afraid they would get suspicious, because ordinarily he would stop them if there was no work order on file, and they acted and sounded a little nervous – but FDLE told him to let them through. No weapons visible in the vehicle as it went past. Strong smell of spray paint, sloppy job of camouflaging the van, he says. Robbins, do your people have a visual?"

"Got 'em," the FDLE lead officer said. "Wearing generic tan uniforms, small van with the cable company logo. We have a couple, man and woman, walking a dog up and down Kimball. No conventional weapons, but the dog's a K-9. They've – wait, they confirm the van."

"The registration number on the van is a fake," Garcia reported. "Tags come back to a food services delivery van at FSU. Reported stolen a month ago."

"Driving past the house," Robbins of the FDLE said. "Looking for something, not sure what."

"Larry's truck," Morgan said with confidence. "Give me a sec, I'm going out there to flag them down."

"Morgan?" Hotch said warningly.

"I'm OK," Derek insisted.

Hotchner nodded.

Derek jogged around the house – damn, but all that jiggling felt weird! – and looked up and down the street. A few parked cars. An older black woman with iron gray hair and a broad, dimpled butt strolling along in deep conversation with a heavy-set middle-aged white man with a USMC tattoo and a mostly-shepherd dog on a leash. They waved merrily at Derek, just neighbors passing in the evening.

_There. _

Brown van with the logo of the local cable provider.

Derek stepped out into the road and waved his arms, flagging the vehicle down.

The van slowed to a stop, but the two young men inside stayed inside.

Morgan walked to the driver's side, miming cranking down a window. The driver, easily identifiable as Brian Stafford, lowered his window.

Morgan grinned. "You're Brian, right? Larry and the Reverend Dugan are over at the pool. Larry and Lynnette had one of those, you know, interesting moments, and Lynnette took the truck and split."

Brian Stafford studied him from top to toe with obvious distaste. "Who are you? You a friend of Larry's?"

Derek turned on his sunniest smile, the one Garcia said could charm the birds out of any tree and the pants off of any girl. "What do you think, man?" he said, spreading his arms wide in celebration of his nakedness and his conspicuous body art. "I'm Derek Morgan, man! I'm with the fucking FBI!"

Brian smiled weakly and nodded and drove away.

"Done," Morgan announced when he arrived back in the yard. "They're heading to the pool, where Robbins and his people are set up." He could not keep the smug look off his face. "And I played it by the book, identified myself and everything."

Hotch high-fived him. "Well played, Morgan. Well-played." 

_~ o ~_

Late in the evening, as the sun finally faded away, they gathered at poolside, sitting on their towels around a large white hexagonal table – Freddy and Rose and the four members of the BAU, all wearing flip-flops ("They _breed_ here," Rose had explained, "like wire coat hangers and bunnies and ball point pens. Wherever you look, there will be flip-flops.") and nothing much else, drinking soft drinks from plastic cups.

They happily ceded ninety percent of the credit for the Bubba-1040 bust to the FDLE and the lucky break of finding the Reverend Freddy's connection to Miriam Twitchell Russell.

Strauss wouldn't like it.

But the kind of detailed reports that would come out of a fuller participation by the BAU?

She would have liked that even less.


End file.
